Webbed Up, Looking Down
by ThanksIllPass
Summary: Wade is webbed to the ceiling


So here's the deal, I'm webbed to the ceiling. Yes, it was my fault. Yes, I did ask for it. No, not like that. It's not what I wanted. What I wanted was hot sticky ceiling sex. Now all my blood went down to my head so I couldn't get a boner even if I tried. And I tried. Oh, did I try. Wanna know why?

I've been hanging here like this for seven hours already. And in that time, Peter has done it all: reading for an hour, taking with May on the phone for thirty minutes,** [He didn't even let us say hello!]** eating, licking his hands clean, leaving to take a shower, even _jerking off_! And then he went to sleep. Naked.

I can't sleep. Must be all the blood in my head. I'm bored. I'm lonely. My nose itches. I wish I could scratch it. I wish I wasn't such an asshole._ (No you don't.)_ No I don't. I wish Peter wasn't such an asshole. Or maybe I wish he was only an asshole.

Can you imagine it? Just an asshole. No body, no legs to kick me in the head, no mouth to tell me I'm a pervert and an idiot, no hands to web me to the ceiling. **[We love those legs.]** _(And we need those hands and this mouth.)_ We really do. And his dick. He can't be just an asshole.

In case you're wondering, this isn't a metaphor. I'm not being all sappy admitting to myself that Peter has many good traits I love beside being a douche. I really did imagine Peter's body transformed into nothing but a giant asshole. You can try too if you want but I'm pretty sure you won't like it.

Did you know that Spider-Man snores. He does. I can hear it past the rush of blood in my ears and that's saying something. I wish my mouth wasn't webbed shut so I could drool on him. **[Or whisper obscenities that would slip into his subconscious and give him weird dreams.]** _(Or, you know, wake him up and beg for forgiveness?)_ Or that. Why not.

I sigh but no one can hear it. I am completely alone. Loneliness. Indigestion and loneliness. I miss Blind Al. I miss Weasel. I even miss Bob. That's what not talking leads to? Feelings? Ew. Help. Please. I need to talk. I need to tell Peter I'd be better off if he was just an asshole, even if it's not true. I need to say something.

Can a person cry if they're hanging upside down? Or do the tears just go into the brain to mix with all the blood. Hey, maybe that's the cure for cancer. That would be cool. You know what would be even cooler? If Peter let me down. That would be fantastic.

"I'm sorry, Petey," I say. I say? I can talk?! "Can I talk?"** [Apparently.]** "Hey, hey! Peter! Wake up! Peter! May is on fire!"

"Huh?"

Peter startles awake and he blinks at me. He's so adorable when he's sleepy._ (And yet so evil when awake…)_

"Wade? What are you- OH MY GOD! Wade, are you okay?"

And he says I'm the one who's confusing. Peter starts to tear off the webs that already started to dissolve** [Irony's timing is perfect]**, mumbling something about completely forgetting about testing a new formula, blah blah, should have worn off hours ago, yadda yadda, he's so sorry etc. It's a miracle I can hear it, my eardrums must have already healed after fucking exploding from the pressure.

"Wade, please, tell me you're okay, oh God, I'm so sorry, Wade, please forgive me, please don't kill me and sell my post mortem photos to Daily Bugle."

"I'm alright."

"Oh my god, you're going to kill me, aren't you, God, I'm such a complete fuck up."

_(I feel sorry for him… Let's not kill him…)_

"Are you using tears to trick me into sparing your life? Because it's working." **[You're such a fucking softy.]** "Well, fuck you, spiders dig emotionally available pools, okay?"

"What?"

"Yellow box called me a softy because white box tried to convince me not to kill you."

Peter looks devastated. Good. "Wade I'm really sorry. I can't tell you how much."

He reaches out to touch my face. I can't even force myself to flinch. Or not to sag against his hand like a sad lonely bag of sadness and loneliness I am without him. I let him hug me. He's shaking, he must be really upset. He clutches at my skin like he's afraid I might actually push him away.

"What a fucking idiot…" Peter's hands still. **[Said that one out loud.]** Well, fuck. _(Quick, say something reassuring!)_ "… I am… for treating you like a… fancy sex machine and… trying to-"

He pulls away to look me in the eye. His hands are back on my neck, stroking it gently. Feels nice.

"You don't have to apologize for that," he says. "Well, you could have been a little less… douchy about it, instead of nagging me for hours and threatening to send May our sex tape, that I'm still pretty sure doesn't exist by the way, but… I went too far. It's my fault, I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my plate right now, your timing couldn't have been worse, so…"

**[Is he saying he will fuck our brains out on the ceiling eventually?]**

"Are you saying you will fuck my brains out on the ceiling eventually?"

Peter snorts and looks up to the ceiling. "If that's what you want, sure, we could try… eventually."

_(Score!)_ Well, it's cool. Cool. **[Seven hours of pure torture, and we only get eventually?]** Beggars can't be choosers. "So tomorrow then."

He laughs again and pulls me down on the bed. "Well, try next month, but yeah. It's a promise."

"Cool."

"Sleep now."

"Okay. Good night."

Peter snores.** [Rude.]**


End file.
